“What you call madness, I call . . . creative thinking. You could benefit from some of that, Your Grace.”
He speared both hands through his hair. “Why are you down here at all? Write your letters upstairs.”
“I don’t have a writing desk upstairs.”
Today’s task: Procure a writing desk.
“Are you awake?” she whispered.
Not again.
Ransom rubbed his face. “I am now.”
Jesus Christ. This had to stop.
It had been almost a week now. Every day since she’d arrived, he woke to the sounds of Izzy Goodnight all too near.
He didn’t know what time of night she was sneaking down here. He didn’t want to know. He’d taken up drinking himself into a nightly stupor to avoid knowing.
In the past few days, he’d arranged for her to have a companion, blankets, a brazier, a writing desk. What more would it take to get her to stay in her damned room until a decent hour of morning?
A lock and chain, perhaps.
“I thought of something,” she said excitedly. “It came to me last night, in bed. R-A-N-S-O-M.”
He stretched a knot from his neck. “What?”
“That first night, you said, ‘Do I have to spell out the danger?’ But then halfway through, you forgot how to spell danger.”
“I didn’t forget how to spell the word,” he objected. “I just got bored with the spelling of it.”
The truth was, he wasn’t as quick with words as he’d once been. Especially when he grew fatigued.
These predawn conversations with Izzy Goodnight were extremely fatiguing.
“Well, anyway. That’s what you should have said.” She lowered her voice to mimic his. “ ‘Do I have to spell out the danger for you? R-A-N-S-O-M.’ ”
He scrubbed the sleep from his face with both hands. “That’s ridiculous. I’d never say that.”
“Why not? It’s perfect. Your name is the one word you can’t forget how to spell.”
He shook his head, frowning. “This argument was days ago now. It’s over. And you’ve been thinking about this spelling nonsense ever since?”
“I know, I know. It’s absurd. But that’s always the way for me. I never think of the right thing to say until days later.” She drifted closer to where he sat on his pallet. “I know it’s hard to get back in the spirit of the moment now. But believe me, ‘R-A-N-S-O-M’ would have been the perfect retort.”
He couldn’t begin to decide how to answer that. So he didn’t.
“I made tea,” she said.
She drew very near him. Too near. His whole body went on alert, and his blood pounded in his ears.
Then she bent down and set the mug of tea on the table. “Just to the right of your elbow.”
He could feel heat. Probably the tea, but maybe her. He was vibrating between the desire to clutch her close and the instinct to push her away. A muscle quivered in his arm.
“You have a bit of fluff just here.” Her fingers teased through his hair, sending ripples of sensation down his spine. When he flinched, she said softly, “Hold still. I’ll get it.”
No, you won’t.
He caught her wrist. And then he caught her in his arms, tugging her down to his lap.
“What are you doing?” she asked, breathless.
“What am I doing? What the devil are you doing?”
Her hips wriggled, taunting him.
He held her tighter still, immobile. “You come down here and torment me at the crack of every dawn. Now you’re making me tea. And flicking fluff. Is this some kind of coddling? I don’t want any coddling.”
“It’s not coddling. It’s not meant to be tormenting, either. I just . . . enjoy greeting you in the morning.”
“That’s impossible.”
Ransom would have believed just about any other excuse. But she couldn’t expect him to credit that she stole down here in the misty, early dawn for the pleasure of his company.
“It’s true. Every time you wake up, you let fly the most marvelous string of curses. It’s never the same twice, do you know that? It’s so intriguing. You’re like a rooster that crows blasphemy.”